


Colin

by chezchuckles



Series: Trauma Spy [4]
Category: Castle (TV 2009)
Genre: F/M, Trauma Spy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25677517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chezchuckles/pseuds/chezchuckles
Summary: Around October/autumn of their first year at the house together. Written by cartographical. Short vignette.
Relationships: Kate Beckett & Richard Castle, Kate Beckett/Richard Castle
Series: Trauma Spy [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821298
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Colin

\-----

They’re less than five miles away when he finally cracks. “Darling, keep staring at me and my brother will get the wrong idea.”  
  
He sees her chest rise and fall in his peripheral vision, a short, tense huff of air, a brief burst of frustration fizzling through the car. With herself, he near as he can figure. “You were gone a long time,” she finally says, her words soft but steady.  
  
“You miss me?” But he already knows why she’s asking; he’s felt her groping for the words the last twenty minutes, the clouded, amorphous thoughts she can’t sculpt into language. She stays quiet, half struggling to find the words, half shying away from them. “How bad was it?”  
  
He glances over, catches her shifting away as her fingers tighten into fists. He turns his gaze to the center of the road, the yellow curve of the centerline, giving her some veneer of privacy. “Bad,” she finally says.  
  
He eases up around a curve. “Did you hurt him?” His brother had felt – off -- by the time Colin had gotten home ten hours before. His shoulders had been loose and his eyes had been clear and the kids had happily babbled, Wyatt even reaching out and squawking something affectionate at him, but there’d been a low current in the air, a subtle fretting anxiousness that was almost undetectable.  
  
“N-no.”  
  
Colin feels the sigh swell in his chest, just manages to trap it there. Twenty-seven years on earth he’s spent trying only to avoid everyone’s swirling suck of emotions, and now he’s here playing at amateur therapist, his normally stoic brother as much as mess as the rest of humanity and the girl beside him more so and fuck if his skin isn’t itching – again – for a hit of something, anything to take the edge off. “Look, he was walking and smiling and fine, and so were the kids. That’s the important shit.”  
  
She’s entirely turned from him, now, curled into her door so that when he glances over he can only just catch the sharp angle of her jaw. “He wasn’t too slow,” she finally says, “but he almost was.” She pauses, and for a long moment it’s just the shush of the tires on the road and the slight irregularity of her exhales. “I went for him – I wasn’t – I wasn’t -- I only half remember it now, this kind of fog over everything and he just -- hesitated. Hesitated.”  
  
“Did you have the scalpel?” he asks, his voice tighter, harsher than he means.  
  
“Knife. I had a knife.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“His forearm. Grazed him. But –“  
  
“Too close,” he finishes.  
  
The hell of it is, these days, he gets it. Too much time near his brother, his emotions pressed into Colin’s sternum, burrowing into his chest until he sometimes feels it pulsing through his heart, that intense tidal wave of love that’s so much more engulfing than the flame of pain from a knife to the kidney.   
  
But he also remembers the smooth slip of that kidney beneath his bare fingertips – no time to put on sterile gloves regimen would take care of it anyway just stop the bleeding, stem the steady flow pulsing out onto the floor of his bathroom of their refuge the best time of his life building it sunlight and sweat and hard work with the only person in the world who mattered whose pulse was now pushing life relentlessly out of his body and the ragged edge of his internal organ that he can still sometimes feel in the dark night – “You need to do better,” he finally says. Nearly chokes on the words even now, a reflexive denial – fuck if this girl needs to do anything - that is no doubt entirely his brother’s still frothing in his gut.  
  
“I know,” she whispers.  
  
“He lets his guard down around you,” he presses, feels it churning through him hard enough he’s nauseous. Doesn’t help when she makes this low, soft animal noise that cuts off in a pained choke. “Fucking hell,” he grumbles through a sudden responsive tightness in his own throat. This girl.  
  
But thank fuck for small favors, the vet’s long wooded drive is approaching. She’s curled away from him in her seat and ten to one she’s doing that fucking silent crying thing that kicks him in the stomach – he’ll thank his brother for that one, too, for the days when he can’t stop feelingfor her.  
  
“Look. Beckett. We’re here.”  
  
She shifts and turns, eyes red but clear. “It won’t happen again,” she murmurs, low and hoarse and intense. “It won’t.”  
  
He swallows the words down his throat and back into his chest – Make sure it doesn’t – because when she’s like this there’s no telling what the fuck she’ll do and of all the things he’s sure of, the first is that if his brother finds her in his gorgeous sunken bathtub with her wrists slit open he will never be the same again.  
  
***  
  
The dogs he’s photographing for Mason are sweet fluffy morons, sit and stay and don’t remotely look like they’ll go lunging at his hand because he walked into the room too fast.  
  
“Thanks again, Rob,” Mason says. “I’d love to get these guys out of here in the next few weeks, and they get so much more attention when it’s you taking the pictures with that contraption than when it’s just me with my Polaroid.”  
  
“No problem,” Colin says, finds he halfway means it. Taking pictures of the rehabbed, now-adoptable dogs is somehow soothing in its monotonousness. “Now I just need to hunt down my brother’s wife.”  
  
Mason grins, bewildered but affectionate. “Might be halfway to Canada right now. I still can’t let that animal out of the fenced yard for fear he’d bolt off and not come back, but hell if he ever goes too far from her.”  
  
“She says he’s ready to come home soon.”  
  
The vet shakes his head. “Can’t condone it, not with anyone and especially not with two little kids. But his paw doesn’t need the attention anymore, and it’s true that she has a way with Wolf I’ve never seen the likes of before.”  
  
“Good guard dog,” Col says with a smirk, holding up a hand when Mason starts to stutter out a protest. “I know, I know.”  
  
“I’ll put Chessie away,” the vet says, still shaking his head as he tugs on the leash of the overly-amenable mutt who’s been waiting quietly at their heels. “Good luck finding the roaming ones.”  
  
***  
  
He hikes into the woods with the weight of the Leica at one hip and the weight of his Glock at the other. The air is sharp with the scent of autumn, that wild coldness as the sun starts its descent. He lets himself just walk for a moment, drifting on the stillness, funneling his senses down to the area just around him and the textured silence, the whisper of leaves and the fumble of squirrels running through the forest and nothing more, no tangle of worries and fears and grocery lists and loves and desires and jealousies and joys and aches that is always so presentwhen people are near.  
  
And then he lets himself open up, without thinking, finds his feet drifting north towards her singular presence, right now so thoroughly disheveled -- the vibrancy of joy at the air and freedom, being with the wild thing in the woods, and underneath those waves of worry, an intensity of feeling that he’s come to associate with her, love and panic entwined so deeply that he fears she might never untangle them.  
  
He stills for a moment when he finds that feeling twining into himself, starting to rise up in him – fuck, fuck, how does she live with that, every fucking time he starts to feel her this that he’s amazed all over again at her ability to survive it – and nudges back against it. Her tsunami of feeling is so much more vibrant but so much more containable than nearly anyone else’s, especially now that he’s starting to learn her, learn how to block the worst of it – fuck, he had to, for fear of drowning, and now more and more when he’s near her he’s finding new damns and levees against it, higher walls that don’t start to crack as often against the roaring force of her sea.  
  
He finds her kneeling in a clearing, alone, head bent, sunlight streaking low and golden through the trees in that afternoon hour that makes his fingers itch for his camera, sometimes even when he’s stalking silent on a mission and the only thing in his hand is his Beretta. There’s an intensity to her right now, a combination of grief and joy that aches out of her and into the surrounding air, a tangible thing that’s so much more than the arch of her neck or the sweep of hair that’s just fallen from behind her ear but that he might be able to start to capture.  
  
He gets behind the camera and the world stills, narrows, quiets.  
  
His fingers trip along the metal and plastic, adjusting aperture, depth, white balance, zooming to her face and pressing the shutter release just at the end of her inhale, when her chest is filled with air and life and the earth is humming with such rich and vibrant feeling that it makes his throat tight.  
  
And then the wolf bolts at her, barreling into her torso and knocking her half back to the leaves, circling tightly, knocking its head and then its body into torso, gangly limbs flailing into her in a playful way that shifts along boundaries every time he presses the release– click wolf click dogclick wolf.  
  
The shutter whirs too slowly; he can picture the streak of wolf and the blur of her motion, and he cranks up the shutter speed and ISO instinctively as his finger presses again and again, messy emotions held off behind layers of glass, sharply focused in a way that’s so entirely impossible outside a camera.  
  
The light hits the lines of her body just so, makes her fluid grace golden as she holds her arm out for the wolf, not quite petting, not quite grabbing, but a moment of stillness in which suddenly the click of the shutter is entirely too loud.  
  
Their heads both lift to him, a low and dangerous rumble in the wolf’s throat suddenly reverberating through the clearing as the thing rocks back. “Beckett,” he murmurs, lifting his hand off the shutter and towards his gun – his brother will maim him if he has to shoot the thing but he’d rather get mauled by his brother than a damn adolescent wolf – but she’s reaching out and wrapping a hand around its neck in a supremely ill-conceived move before he even clears his holster.  
  
“Stop, Wolf,” she murmurs, her hand coming up to card through the hair at the animal’s head before she lifts her head to glare at him. “Should let him go,” Beckett huffs, arm at the growling dog’s throat. Wolf shivers, but the growling cuts off into a whine and then finally to silence. Colin takes a tentative step forward and the sound doesn’t resume, although the glare in Beckett’s eyes sharpens. “Want to tell me what the fuck you’re doing?”  
  
“I came to find you,” he says, stopping several feet away from her and then sinking slowly to the ground. He’s learned the hard way that Beckett doesn’t do well with anyone but Castle hovering over her. “I finished up taking the pictures for Mason and I figured I’d need to come collect you at some point.”  
  
She stares, and if he hadn’t had a lifetime of refusing to be embarrassed by poor behavior his cheeks would be flushed. “And?”  
  
“Well I hiked for a bloody few minutes.” He’d known he would have to – he’d known ever since he’d announced he was going to the vet and Beckett had said I’m going with you and he couldfeel the wildness at the edges of her words, could feel how she broadcast in no uncertain terms that this was not a family trip, could feel the guilt and the anger and the rage – at herself, all at herself – in her voice.  
  
“And,” she says, her voice clipped and icy.  
  
“Fine. Fine, I took your picture.” He flops back into the leaves and stares up at the darkening sky, not even caring if her damn dog sees fit to run over and rip his throat out. “I had my camera and you were just sitting there and I took it out and took your picture.”  
  
“Multiple times.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, fucking hell, I took a lot of pictures, that’s what I do.”   
  
“Without asking.”  
  
It clicks suddenly, and he shoves himself back up onto his elbows, meets her frozen gaze. “Not like that,” he says. “It’s not – not in a creepy way.” He doesn’t mean creepy. He means violating and possessing, he means that it’s not observing her and cataloguing her from behind a layer of glass like his father did, that it’s the opposite of that, but of course how the fuck can she possibly understand.  
  
He shuffles on his knees over to her, ignoring the dog’s warning growl – thing might sink its teeth into his arm again but this is one of the only times that’s less important – and holding the camera out to her.  
  
She blinks. “I don’t think –“  
  
“Take it,” he says. The wolf whuffs low in his throat but stays silently pressed against her side, not offering any immediate challenge.  
  
She reaches out and grabs it. He quiets her rough movement with a finger at her wrist, not grabbing her, just resting quietly against the sharp edge of her bone. “Careful, Beckett, this thing was five figures.”  
  
“What,” she gasps, her fingers blanching on the camera body as she holds it tightly, too tightly away from her body. “Take it back, shit, I don’t want to be responsible for that.”  
  
“Too late,” he murmurs, slowly, slowly reaching out, methodically moving the camera strap over her head so that it settles at the back of her neck. She flinches, tense and ready to strike, for a moment more wolf than Wolf, but then she drags in a breath and he can feel her settling.  
  
She grips the body of the camera stiffly, awkwardly, so unlike the grace with which she handles a knife. Fine. “So I was shooting totally manual, but you’ll want to switch over to aperture priority –- the shutter speed will adjust for you and you’re just controlling the focus and amount of light there, which is probably enough – and it’s the dial right – no, that’s white balance, it’s –“  
  
He cuts himself off, feeling a wave of frustration rising off of her so fast it almost chokes him. The wolf makes a whining little noise and presses harder against her.  
  
“Okay,” he says. “Sometime when we’re not in the middle of the woods.” He reaches over, quiet, careful, flicks the camera over to aperture and opens it up to what will probably be a decent amount of light. “There. Now you can point and shoot – relatively.”  
  
She stares at it, looking helpless. “I don’t –“ She swallows, and fuck, fuck if she’s not suddenly on the verge of tears.  
  
The words spill out before he can stop them. “Shit, Beckett. When’s the last time anyone bothered to teach you anything except for how to fight.” Her eyes close for a moment too long and damnit all if he’s not feeling her all over her again. “And my brother teaching you new deviant sexual positions.”  
  
She barks something that’s almost a laugh. “Seriously, Colin.”  
  
Right. He can joke about sex with his brother. “Come on, Beckett, don’t you want to take pictures of him when he’s –“  
  
She’s smiling now, a flash of teeth that’s a little less this side of feral. “The look on your face.”  
  
“I’m desperate enough to talk to you about sex with my brother. Look, just pick the thing up and look through the viewfinder and – no, keep your left hand underneath the lens to stabilize it. There, now, see, that’s the focus ring under your fingers, and just next to that is zoom – exactly.”  
  
“Okay,” she breathes, some of that anxiety still churning in her, a sharpness to her feeling that’s so clearly over a fuck of a lot more than a picture.  
  
“Good. Take a picture of a fucking tree or a flower or something. Point. Zoom. Focus. Click. Four step program.”  
  
“That I can do,” she says, tilting the camera up at a tree and pressing on the shutter, the quiet whirring sound making the dog nudge into her curiously. “It’s when you start talking about aperture and shutter speed and all that.”  
  
“You can do that, too,” Colin insists. And more. He’ll corner Castle when he gets back and see about getting her her own camera so he can bring her into the woods to shoot something other than targets. And maybe the woods for survival training too, and understanding the science behind it, a book or an online course or something. Fuck if he has any idea what his brother has been doing with her other than fucking her.  
  
The shutter is clicking along, her index finger pressing and pressing again towards a the arc of a tree, the flash of a bird, the flap of a butterfly, then a sudden close up of the little wolf’s nose as she swings the lens down and the animal nudges up into it.  
  
“Not a race, you know,” Colin says.  
  
“I don’t really get it,” she sighs, lowering the camera.  
  
“Takes time.”  
  
She shrugs, unwrapping the strap from around her neck and pushing the camera back at him.  
  
“You get used to it,” he says into her silence. “Having time. Time to do what you want, I mean.”  
  
“You use it to run,” she says, and her tone a curious mix of accusation and jealousy and curiosity.  
  
“Or take a hit of something. Or both.” She glances sharply at him. “None of it’s ideal,” he admits.  
  
Her shoulders rise and fall in a sigh, some of that helplessness creeping back into the curve of her spine. “Should head back,” she says, the words clipped and firm, such a contrast to her posture.  
  
“You and Wolf should give me a minute.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the camera, but he feels her gaze on him. “Woods are almost as good as cocaine, some days.”  
  
“Colin,” she sighs. Anyone else it would be pity, but there’s too much understanding in her for that.  
  
“Won’t say we’ll figure it out. Might not. But we can sit in the woods whenever we feel like it now.”  
  
“It’s not enough if he’s not safe,” she murmurs.  


“I know.” He doesn’t say anything else, just wraps his arms around his legs and sits next to her, watches the tension in her body slowly ebb into the leaves and dirt beneath her, watches the wolf lift itself from her side and bolt after a squirrel, watches the sky slowly darken into twilight.

*****

after fucked by another  
\----

He finds her in a shallow ditch behind a tilted tree with her face buried in the wolf’s neck.  
  
“Go away,” she calls out to him in what would be a teasing singsong if it weren’t quite so rough around the edges.  
  
“Hell of a way to talk to the guy who’s been taking care of your little monsters for the past few days.”  
  
She lifts red-rimmed eyes to him. “Not monsters,” she roughs out.  
  
“Not really. Could have done a lot worse for getting suddenly saddled with some spawn.”  
  
She narrows her eyes, though it lacks her usual heat. He decides it’s an invite and flops down next to her in the leaves, too close, ignoring the wolf’s warning twitch that flickers through its body. “Shut it, Wolf. You could teach your dog to be a little more grateful for the care, Becks.”  
  
He doesn’t realize until he hears her suck in a sharp breath and it’s too fucking late then.  
  
“Shit,” he mutters. “Not how I meant it.”  
  
“How you should have,” she says, staring down at her legs. He follows her gaze, sees the dirt streaked along the dark denim of her jeans.  
  
They sit in silence in the light, the air too cold for this time of year, biting harsh enough to overcome the warmth of the sun. “He was a heartbeat away from storming out here,” Colin finally says.  
  
Her hand rubs irregular circles through the Wolf’s ruff, up, down, back. The thing’s barely been able to settle, edgy and snapping at him, tense with the kids and only controllable when James laid a (carefully-monitored, always so fucking carefully monitored after that first fucking time with Beckett) hand on him. But of course now it’s leaning into her like a damn cat, its whole body straining for her, just like the kids when she and his brother had finally, finally walked through the door. “He was upset?”  
  
“You fucking think?” he snaps out. “What the fuck was going through your head, Kate Beckett.”  
  
She folds her legs up and curls forward into them, her eyes pressing against the sharp edges of her knees, and fuck if he’s not doing the one thing he swore to Castle he wouldn’t.   
  
“I promised him I wouldn’t get after you. Wouldn’t make you cry. I told him to stay back and relax with the kids and I would find you and we would – you know. Chill. Like before. Even brought you your camera.” He lifts up the lightweight Leica, holds out the sleek grey metal and glass lines of it, but of course she doesn’t see it with her damn face buried in her knees.  
  
Wolf turns his head, glances warningly at Colin before starting to methodically lick her – and he doesn’t do that with anyone except sometimes Wyatt or James if they’re crying, and they cry damn rarely. The tongue laps over her knuckles, then steadily up to the back of her hand, so suddenly dog-like in the intense and focused devotion. She still doesn’t lift her head, but hefeels her sigh, some of that intensely raw anguish bleeding into a softer, quieter kind of despair.  
  
“He called me,” Colin starts, trying again. “After you crashed your bike. He was fucking panicked. Said you were in the hospital and he didn’t know what else but the bus was bringing you straight there and Wyatt had stubbed his foot into a cabinet and wouldn’t stop crying and what was he going to do. And then he started crying himself and shit, Beckett, he’d gone the first thirty-two years of his life without ever crying.”   
  
She hasn’t picked her head up, but he can see her breathing slowing slightly, can feel something like curiosity underneath her panic. The dog’s moved on to her face, nuzzling along the sharp angle of her cheekbone, shadowed in the low late-afternoon light. She finally shifts, just slightly, enough that she can see him out one bloodshot eye. “Well?” she hoarses out.  
  
“Shit, I don’t know. You’re too used to Castle with those kids, I don’t have fucking morals with my stories.”  
  
She huffs out a breath that’s so much less than a laugh, but hell if he won’t take it. Her head doesn’t lift, her shoulders so slumped and defeated, and he’s had four fucking years to steel himself against her but days like this it doesn’t matter, she slices through him as surely as that damn scalpel of hers.  
  
“Remember all those years ago? Sitting in the forest outside Mason’s, back before we quite knew what we were getting into with Wolf?” The cold winter light and the photos that Castle has, now, one framed at the edge of the kitchen even though the first time she saw it she shook her head and absolutely forbid it, the rest in a file folder in the drawer next to his bed.  
  
“Before you knew what you were getting into with me, too.” Her voice is so soft, so absent of that assurance that is both so natural to her and so desperately cultivated.  
  
He’s used to half-finished conversations with her, dropping off in the middle and coming back days, weeks later, and a part of him yearns for it here, for what used to be so fucking easy, getting up and walking away from it all. But he won’t. His brother deserves more, and so does she, and so even does he. “We always knew. You know he always knew, Beckett, the way he found you. Standing over Black, blood-soaked, that fucking scalpel in your hands. He knew what he was getting into with you even as it was impossible for him to have any fucking clue.”  
  
“He didn’t know this.”  
  
“Well. Not precisely. And shit, Becks, of course he’s pissed. Fuck, I’m pissed and I shouldn’t even care about who’s sticking what in you, least not after Black stopped shoving babies up there.”  
  
She gives him something almost like a thin smile that the wolf promptly licks, making her wrinkle her nose and wipe her mouth into her jeans. “You’re horrible at reassurances,” she mumbles.

“Not what they pay me for. Speaking of.” He quirks an eyebrow at her when she flashes a glance at him.  
  
“Castle told you about his ill-advised plan and you talked him out of it?” Her voice has too much of a rasp to it to be entirely playful, a hoarseness that he bets has been there for the past few days.  
  
“Not the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Hell, I’m in the CIA.”  
  
“And they only put up with you because you somehow make it out of missions that nobody else would be able to walk away from,” she retorts.  
  
“I’d imagine you’d –“ he stops, stares at her, the slight slump of her body into the grass and the way her shoulder leans into her wolf, not quite holding herself straight despite the snap in her last words. “You can’t be looking for me to reassure you.”   
  
“It’s not safe,” she husks, back to the edge that fucking fast.  
  
“Look, you know Castle will have your back. If you think that anyone can touch you with him –“  
  
“That’s the problem,” she hisses, her fingers tensing. A growl rumbles around in Wolf’s chest, the thing ready to jump up and attack at the first sign of her distress. No wonder she loves the damn dog; his brother does the exact same thing, ready to take on whatever invisible force might be upsetting her.  
  
He stays silent through the growl of the dog, lets the reverberations settle back to just the shuffling of leaves and the whisper of wind, lets himself get some kind of sense of her again before he speaks. “You are dangerous,” he says, winces when her head snaps up to him, a dark and lonely kind of desperation in her gaze, “but not just for him, Becks.”  
  
“That can’t be guaranteed.”  
  
“No. But he’s smarter around you every day, and you’re smarter around him, and these last few missions. Shit, how many times have you had his back instead of going for it? Up in Voyageurs when you came so fucking close to getting shot in his place, you think you ever could have turned against him instead of flinging yourself at that bullet?”  
  
She’s dropped her gaze back to her lap, the fight out of her just as suddenly as it appeared. Even on the worst days her emotional rollercoaster doesn’t usually drop this precipitously, and he has to suck in another breath of air, remind himself that this particular ride isn’t his. “I don’t know,” she finally murmurs. “When I go blank. Fuck. When I go blank I just don’t know. And this last time I wasn’t even blank, not the whole time. I was fucking freezing and the brick scraping my arms and his touch made my skin crawl and none of it was enough, I wanted to burn it all to the fucking ground. Sometimes I just don’t know.”  
  
He swallows, feels the thick work of his throat as his mind fights to keep the rest of it at bay, the swell of disgust and horror rolling off her that wants to drag him down. Thank fuck that four years of her have been nothing if not effective at steeling him, and so he focuses back on the rustle of a squirrel tapping over a branch, the low whuffs of the animal that’s more dog than anything else right now, the rasp of her breath as she struggles against herself. “Yeah,” he finally says, “you’re fucked up.”  
  
She makes a noise that he decides he’ll tell himself is a strangled laugh.  
  
“Look,” he finally says, “not that you need my blessing. But if ninety percent of the time you’re a pretty fucking deadly honed fighting machine willing to die for him and the other ten percent you’re – a little shakier – you’ll still come out ahead.”  
  
She lets out another one of those tight huffs of air. “Ten percent’s a little harsh,” she gets out.  
  
He grins. “There you go.”   
  
Her fingers waver only slightly as they brush over Wolf’s coat. “Thanks,” she finally murmurs.  
  
He wants to go back, debrief with his brother, drag out a coherent narrative about exactly what the fuck has gone down this past week as he’s been wrangling the kids and the dog, get on his laptop and debrief with Cannes about the Russia extraction he should have been on top of yesterday. But there’s something about Beckett and the woods and a gun or a camera that’s strangely compelling, the wild tension within her brought to focus in such a concentrated way. “Don’t get me wrong, Becks, I’m still a little pissed.” He shifts, grips the cool metal of her Leica in one hand and the sleek lines of her Glock in the other, holds them out in offering. “But I brought your gun and your camera and I figured we could go shoot some shit. Your choice.”  
  
“Both,” she says. “Let’s do both.”


End file.
